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GODS AND DEVILS 



By 



JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 




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GODS AND DEVILS 



GODS AND DEVILS 



By 



JOHN RUSSELL McCARTHY 




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NEW YORK 
JAMES T. WHITE & COMPANY 

1918 



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COPYRICHTID 19t8 BY 
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CONTENTS 

GODS AND DEVILS 7 

THE WAY OF A MAID 8 

THE TREES ARE DEAD II 

THE DANCER IN THE WOOD I3 

THE STILL TREES '..15 

\ SPRING 16 

THERE IS NO MESSAGE I7 

SO COME, MY FRIEND ! 18 

SYCAMORES 19 

TO A WORM 20 

A BALLAD OF GODS 21 

WE WHO CAN DREAM NO ANGELS 2$ 

FOR A BUNNY 27 

AN ANCIENT TERROR 29 

PRAYER 32 

SATISFACTION 33 

RECIPROCITY 34 

TO THE NAZARENE 35 

TO A CHRISTIAN 37 

THE DEAD MAN 39 



CONTENTS— Con/i/m^i 

TO HELL-AND-HEAVEN BUILDERS 41 

GODLINESS 42 

SUNDAY MORNING 43 

we've gone AND DONE IT 44 

ARGUMENT 45 

WHEN THE NIGHT IS VERY LONG \^ 

THE NEW GOLGOTHA 4^ 



GODS AND DEVILS 



THE WAY OF A MAID 

The soul-stuff that is God and hope 
And song and all strange hidden things, — 
Is one <v)ith creeping-things that grope, 
And one ivith birds on fairy swings. 

The soul-stuff — that is dream and song-— 
Diuells in no certain biding-place ; 
Where great Orion strides along 
It is, and in the deivy face 

Of violets, and in the grim 
Heart of the mountain peak it lies — 
This soul-stuff that is one ivith Him, 
And His created thing that dies. 

And when the soul-stuff would he gay, 
It fashions for its mood a rose, 
And through the glories of a day 
With beauty for a gown it goes. 

Or when the soul-stuff would be proud. 
And grand and awful in its pride. 
It builds a mountain crowned with cloud 
With forests growing on its side. 

8 



And 'when 'tiuould preach a homily 

Of ivisdom for small men to hear 

{tVe little men ivho cannot see!) 

It broods and speaks through some great seer. 

But ivhen the soul-stuff, iveary grown 
Of paltry things, ivould have delight — 
JVould have at once a heart of stone 
And youth, desire and beauty bright — 

JVould be beloved and hated too. 

Be fickle, siveet and unafraid — 

It smiles and sings quite happy through 

The bright eyes of a maid. 



T 



THE TREES ARE DEAD 



HE trees are dead, you say, but they will live. 



green, 

They will break forth in wondrous silver and 
Laughter and tremulous song, when April woos 
With wine. The trees are dead, but they will live. 

You say: And thus we too shall be a space 
Silent and seeming dead, and shall come forth 
At the Great Call with laughter like a song. 

And you believe your tale with a deep joy. 

But here among the trees, that will give laughing 
Answer to April, stands a haggard oak, 
Riven by lightning, broken and rotted and dead. 
Here are no buds to answer the warm kiss 
Of April's tempting sun; no perfumed wine 
Will fill the veins there underneath the bark, 
When winter flees before the hosts of spring. 

Here's death — as you shall know it; yes and I. 
Here's very death — and not his brother, sleep. 

Must we have comfort, now your tale is proven 
A snare? Must we seek hope once more among 
The trees, that sleep and wake again? or die 
And rot, and mix with the Great Mother? 

11 



Yet there — Or am I weaving, too, a snare, 
Out of the strands of hope? — yet there, perhaps, 
In that strange mixing with the Mother of All, 
The answer lies: that we must look for life 
Hereafter, not by one and one, — your soul 
Alone among the souls of other men. 
Drifting and staying, a thing apart forever — 
But we must see, when all at last is counted 
And the great sum is made, how one by one 
We have returned to Her, the Mother of All — 
The bit of soul-stufT that She loaned to us. 

For we must live at last a part of Her — 
For we shall be forever as one with Her. 



12 



THE DANCER IN THE WOOD 

To E. L. 

NO song of nymph within the laughing dell, 
No dance of naiad by the wooded lake; 
All graceful sprites, that in the forest dwell 
Or in the fancy their free wooing make, 
Are faded on the wind, and their soft spell 

Dreams into silence, with the words they spake. 



Yet when Apollo — envious red was he — 

Beat his reluctant wings against the west, 

Within a wood that whispers of the sea, 

I saw three maples bend to make a nest; 

And, on a sudden, blithe and merrily. 

Like Dancing April came their maiden guest. 



Her raiment was a windspun woof of spray 
That covered her with kisses for a veil; 
Her dancing lilted like a lyric lay 

Of a wild young poet, singing a lover's tale; 
And her two feet, that trod the fragrant way. 

Kept time with hearts that know not how to 
fail- 
is 



Kept time with lovers' hearts, for she was young 
And had come forth to dance the dance of spring- 

And when her body's anthem had been sung, 
Wordless and sweet, as kisses on the wing, 

She fled.— Like chimes that have been rung 
The maples trembled at so fair a thing. 



14 



THE STILL TREES 

I THANK you, Elm and Beech and all my friends 
That live so wisely on the happy hills, 
I thank you for your silence. Even a friend — 
Especially a friend — must have his moods, 
His long still days of dreaming silence, spent 
In strange communion with his soul and God. 
And you, my friends, have chosen for your silence 
The slow lean months of winter. All the burdens 
And all the joys of this embattled earth 
You dare forget, so that your soul and God 
May have their hour of studious solitude. 
So I, O friends, who walk among you now, 
Go searching inward to the soul in me, 
And bend my dreams unto the God we know. 
I thank you. Elm and Beech and all my friends 
That live so wisely on the happy hills. 



15 



SPRING 

A THOUSAND little slimy things 
'Are praising God with me. 
They go chipping and chirping about their pond, 
Little smooth jigglers and wigglers that only a 

child could touch; 
And every ecstatic wiggle is a "Hail Mary!" 
And the chips and chirps are a squeaky "Amen 
chorus." 

These happy little devils know what they are 

wiggling about, 
And chipping and chirping about. 
Just as well as I know why I stand on the mountain 

top and shout. 
Very likely, one of these days. 
They and I will do a little cursing together; 
But now, in the spring, we are praising, praising; 
A thousand little slimy things 
Are praising God with me. 



16 



THERE IS NO MESSAGE 

THERE is no message in the barren sky, 
No strange hand-writing in some starry code 
I might discover with my poesy. 

For I have watched Arcturus through his course; 

Orion I have followed like a hound 

Eager for crumbs. The clustered Pleiades, 

The cold white fires of Aldebaran, 

Have answered all my queries with a stare. 

The limbo of dead stars is black and cold. 
There is no message in the barren sky. 



17 



so COME, MY FRIEND! 

TTJITH silence and the hill and one gaunt tree, 

«' ^ And light like music from the reigning moon, 
Filling the eyes with visions calm and old, 
And whispering silent symphony to the ears. 

Prophetic of strange aeons still and cold, 
How can I hold my little earthly fears? 

Here very death comes masking as a boon, 
And hears my welcome as he welcomes me. 
For here with silence and the strange sweet light 
There is the slow heave of immensity — 
Its vast pure song, that surges without end, 
Forever and forever. 

Now my soul 
Stirs, singing, in me, to the lilt. So, friend, 
Friend Death, come lead me to the timeless goal! 
This night I am yours without your alchemy; 
I am at one with death and song, this night. 



18 



SYCAMORES 

GHOSTS— 
High, eerie ghosts with a hundred arms, 
Beckoning — warning away, 
Whispering — hissing; 
High, eerie ghosts of old dead rivers, 
Little slim ghosts of young dead creeks. 



19 



TO A WORM 

DO you know you are green, little worm, 
Like the leaf you feed on? 
Perhaps it is on account of the birds, who would like 

to eat you. 
But is there any reason why they shouldn't eat you, 
little worm? 

Do you know you are comical, little worm? 
How you double yourself up and wave your head, 
And then stretch-out and double-up again, 
All after a little food! 

Do you know you have a long, strange name, little 

worm? 
I will not tell you what it is. 
That is for men of learning. 

You — and God — do not care about such things. 
You would wave about and double-up just as much, 

and be just as futile, with it as without it. 
Why do you crawl about on the top of that post, 

little worm? 
It should have been a tree, eh? with green leaves 

for eating. 
But it isn't, and you have crawled about it all day, 
looking for a new brown branch, or a green leaf. 
Do you know anything about tears, little worm? 

20 



A BALLAD OF GODS 

COME, let us make us a god! 
The old gods are dead. 
The new gods are weak and pale 
Like children fed on pastry. 



Out upon these little gods! — 

Passion? 

Show me the god who can urge a man to shed so 

much as a thimble-full of blood, 
I will bow down to him like a helot. 
Love? 
What god among all these gods can tear a woman 

from her mate? 
Terror? 

There's not a god in the sickly, typewritten category- 
Can keep one small boy away from the movies. 
Out upon these little gods! 
They were great enough in their day, 
These dead and dying gods. 

Amenalk, Merodach, Vishnu, Brahmin, Osiris — 
Ah! but they were splendid gods in their day. 



Osiris, dread judge of the dead; 

How the old Eg3^ptian quivered at his name! 

21 



Jehovah the vengeful, god of the Jews; 

A mighty deity. 

For him cities and cities burned, 

And for every fallen city a thousand murdered 

women, 
A thousand strong young slaves — 
Jehovah not yet quite dead, 

For whom tobacco in dirty pipes burns as incense, 
Whose call for blood and vengeance is answered 
By the rythmic swaying of unkempt backs in shoddy 

coats. 



Dionysos, of the strange wild orgies? 
Dead, but left rotting above ground — 
Beer, without even hops, for the triumphant urge 

of wine. 
Harridans, leering and painted and corked, 
Begging for a dollar and a bad quarter of an hour, 
Hags with loose knees and seven ounces of brain. 
Or fat, flabby trollops with whiskey tears, 
These — 

For the slim snow-breasted virgins 
Daring to struggle and daring to yield, 
In the tense wild orgies 
When Dionysos was young. 

22 



Odin, the virile, 

God of the northern forests; 

Black-draped bearded druids with gleaming knives, 

Shag headed, wizard-eyed, under the sinister stars, 

Chanting to the sacred, gloomy oak; 

Silence in the silvan temple, 

A white form amid the black, 

A sweet, terrible cry — 

Odin, the virile, is appeased. 

But now — 

The druid priests have grown up into thistles. 

The sacred oak is planking 

In a bridge over a sewage-river. 

And Odin is four little black letters in a book. 

Cold, cold, cold — 

And all the red religious frenzy 

Frozen into ethics, economics, whatnots. 

The new gods are weak and pale, 
Like children fed on pastry; 
The old gods are dead. 
Come, let us make us a god! 

Come, let us build us a god beyond all the gods 
of the earth, 

23 



Huge — 

Broad as the east and the west of the universe, 

Tall as the meeting of parallel lines, 

With eyes as deep and sad as infinity, 

With hair like the trailing locks of innumerable 

comets spun on the wheel of eternity, 
With sinews tempered in the fires of numberless 

suns, 
With Hertzian waves, for nerves between star and 

star. 
And radium brain. 

And then, perchance, as the aeons crumble the earth, 
The God, that man can neither build nor dream. 
Will turn a little toward our puny race, 
And smile. 



24 



WE WHO CAN DREAM NO ANGELS 

WE who can dream no angels sweet and white, 
Living forever in a strange heavenly peace, 
What shall we hold in our hearts, when the little 

light 
Of our little dark souls shall flutter a moment, and 

cease? 

We, who must bury our own beloved dead, 
And dare not hope to see them again for ever. 
How shall we lighten our hearts, when they fall 

like lead 
In our own love's leaden coffin to rise up never? 

Come, let us listen, we of the little dreams, 

To the trumpet-voice of the wind on the wooded 

hills, 
To the whispering voice of the wind where it woos 

the streams, 
To the thundering roar of the tempest that blinds 

and kills! 

Come, let us look again on the red of the rose! 
Let us see without terror the mighty eyes of the sky! 
Let us watch the sun when he scatters the winter's 

snows, 
And pity the moon who tries so hard to die! 

25 



We, who can dream no angels — we will know 

How proud a thing it is to be a rose; 

How grand and awful a gift it is to go 

A whispering prophet, where the free wind goes. 

We, who can dream no angels — though we feel 

The burdened littleness of sentient things, 

The unreality of what seems real. 

The lagging of tired feet and the drooping of wings, 

Yet, perhaps, as we pity the dying moon, 

Our souls shall loose their fetters and know their 

kin; 
Shall laugh — shall be one with the soul of the dying 

moon, 
And welcome the wraith of the wind, and bid him 

come in. 

Maybe the soul of our love that we buried deep 
Shall be one with ours, and be parted from us never; 
And we shall know the secret the still winds keep — 
Our soul and the soul of the world at one forever. 



26 



FOR A BUNNY 

YOU had a good start, little cottontail, 
And would have made it, except for a single 

shot 
That broke the bone in that hind leg of yours. 
Then I came running, throwing my gun aside. 
You hardly moved, and didn't even squeal, 
But only looked at me with your round eyes— 
A little fearful, but surely more of hope 
Than fear was in them. Well! you had been hurt. 
And here was a big wise-looking chap who smiled— 
So very big and wise that he might help. 
And so you hoped, and with your eyes you prayed. 

You were still praying with your great brown eyes. 

When I, the big wise fellow, finished you 

With one quick stroke. 

Of course you couldn't see— 

Nor pray— but after that my smile was just 
As cheerful as ever and happy over it all. 



I prayed one day too, little cottontail. 
To a big wise fellow I couldn't see so well, 
But who was smiling and seemed big enough 
To do most anything a person asked; 



27 



and just as I was praying and hoping best, 
And just as I was praying and hoping best, 
There came a sudden blow that I could not see: 
The prayer was broken and the hope was dead. 

The big wise-looking fellow was still there, 
And still was smiling — through the sun, you know; 
I think he was even singing, through the birds, 
And making merry by the merry streams. 

Well, you are out of it, little cottontail, 
And wiser now than I. 

And I believe, 
It very likely you are part of him. 
The big wise fellow I was speaking of; 
And you are smiling with the smiling sun, 
You know that I'll be coming shortly, too. 
And you'll be meeting me right cheerily. 
And mixing with me without hope or fear. 
Then we shall laugh together through the sun, 
And sing together through the singing birds, 
And dance together by the dancing streams. 
And, being part of the great wise fellow then. 
We'll understand this smiling at a prayer. 



28 



AN ANCIENT TERROR 

WHY does my dog howl 
When the church bells ring? 
Is there an , ancient terror 
Feeding on his blood? 

For sometimes when he howls, 

I see a thing which straightens my hair, 

And freezes my blood, and palsies my flesh. 

I see a break, a windfall, in a great wood- 
Snow lying deep and snow driven before the wmd; 
A shaken hut against an oak, 
With a fire burning, burning, 

Before it. 

I see a creature, like a man. 

With great shoulders and protruding jaw. 

Gripping a club in his hands. 

Standing by the f^re; 

And at either side two smaller figures 

Armed too with clubs. 

Out from the fire, 

Fringing the edge of the windfall. 

Row upon row in widening circles of gleaming disks. 

In twos, in twos, and twos 

Eyes, lurid, in dark heads. 

Glaring against the driving snow. 

29 



The fire burns low. 

There is no more wood, except beyond those gleam- 
ing disks. 

Here and there a pair of eyes 

Moves inward, slowly, from the rest. 

The circle narrows. 

Half the windfall fills with eyes — 

In twos, in twos — 

A dozen feet from the dying fire the line holds. 

The flap of the hut flutters 

And a tiny form slips through; 

A shriek from the hut 

And a lithe tall creature leaps through the mouth 

After the tiny form — 

Then 

The snapping of a myriad jaws, 

The leaping of a myriad shaggy things 

Like a wave of hot flesh and blood, 

With disks of fire for foam — 

And snarls and snapping and shrieks and the crack- 
ing of bones. 



Flash, now, on the instant 
Out of the night sky, 
Blinding, terrifying, enduring — 
Silence, silence, in the terrible light; 
Jaws that are closed on flesh droop low, 



30 



Tongues that were lapping blood hang dead, 

Eyes that gleamed are fixed and dull. 

And slow, from beyond the blinding glare, 

Comes the tolling of strange bells. 

One by one, reluctant, dazed, 

The lean forms slink away 

Out of the glare, into the sheltering wood. 

And here and there one stops and howls to heaven. 



31 



PRAYER 

HOME I wandered through the moonlight 
From my little love's abode; 
Drooped a shadow from an elm-tree, 

Drooped a shadow on the road; 
And the shadow caught my fancy 
As right thoughtfully I strode. 

Caught a deeper, leaden fancy 

In some chamber of my soul. 
And I followed where it led me, 

To a strangely solemn goal — 
To a sepulture of marble 

Bearing forth an ebon scroll; 

For the shadow in the moonlight 

Seemed the sweet form of a maid, 

Lying like a wraith in slumber 
In some mystic, sacred shade. 

Vague and far my love's face floated — 
And I knelt me down and prayed. 



32 



SATISFACTION 



HOW could any god be happy 
With only one hell? 
Why even a dog has different teeth 
To crush this flea, or that flea. 



33 




RECIPROCITY 

^O you mind, brother, 
That I laugh 
At the little god 
You have made you? 
I too have a little pretentious god; 
And you may laugh at it. 



34 



TO THE NAZARENE 

BORN of a hardy love 
Stronger than laws of men, 
Born as the outcasts are 
World-over, in hovel or den, 
Pariah-like you wandered, 
Genius-like you dared; 
Soul like a sword of fire 
Searing a path, you fared. 

Yet you were always humble, 
Kin to king and clod; 
Dreamed but to be a teacher; 
Lo! we made you a god — 

Made you a god and crowned you, 
Gave you a sceptre and throne, 
Seated you high in the heavens, 
Sinister, subtle, lone- 
Made you the great law-giver, 
Wrote you the laws to give, 
Wrote them in flaming crimson: 
Death, that they might live! 

Yet you were always humble. 
Kin to king and clod; 
Dreamed but to be a teacher: 
Lo! we made you a god. 

35 



Made you a god, and placed you 
High in the hidden air; 
Gave you a strange handmaiden, 
Lecherous, treacherous, fair — 
Ah! she is fair and sightly, 
Uberous — witness her brood! — 
Fair and sightly and splendid, 
Painted and jeweled and lewd. 

Yet you were always humble, 
Kin to king and clod; 
Dreamed but to be a teacher: 
Lo! we made you a god. 

How, in the throes eternal. 
Death is as sure as birth! 
Gods and godhoods totter — 
Man-made, man-slain — to earth. 
Now, re-awakened, renewed, 
We, that built you a throne, 
Shatter the pillars beneath you, 
Welcome you back to your own! 

Free of your lewd handmaiden, 
Shorn of the throne you hate, 
Jesus of Nazareth — teach us! 
Humbled at last, we wait. 

26 



TO A CHRISTIAN 

WHAT sort of god have you bound hand and 
foot, 
And chained with chains in those four gloomy walls? 
I have forgotten. You told me long ago 
Some terrible wild tales of this chained god, 
And some sweet tales of his apostate son. 
I have forgotten. Yet it seems quite sure 
You never could have bound the apostate son, 
Of whom you told me such strange smiling tales — 
And weeping tales — nor could you chain him fast 
In those four walls in all the 3'^ears to come. 
It seems quite certain you never bound the son. 



— And yet you have a god there when you pray- 



He must be old and bitter now with hate, 

With hate of all things new and young and fair, 

With hate of all things strong and free — this god 

Whom you have chained within four sullen walls. 

How he would tear your temples asunder, and break 

Your futile chains, and scatter with lightning sword 

And terrible enemies your phalanxes 

Of precedence and dogma, were he young 

And virile as of old, before decay 

Brought him to dread surrender and your chains. 

— He must be old and bitter now with hate. 

37 



Come, you are young, and have the world to win. 
Come, loose your old god from his clinging chains, 
And burn the gaol and let him free to choose. 

Mayhap he will go forth with you and me, 
Limping and falling where we walk and run. 
But seeking, too, the god who grows not old. 

1 

We three — what odd mismating — shall go forth 
And find the winds — and find the voice of God; 
And know the hills — and know the thoughts of God; 
And see the flowers — and see the eyes of God; 
And breathe the spring — and know the heart of God. 



38 



THE DEAD MAN 

I AM not so dead as you wish, Henry, the king, 
I am not so dead as you think, Gallo, the knifer. 
I am not so dead as you dream, Mary, my love. 

For, Henry, the king, my whisperings live 

And grow — and grow — and grow; 

Ten thousand men are whispering now for me. 

Their whispering shall become 

A murmuring, a muttering, a rumble, a roar, 

Deafening, deadening. 

You shall think of me, Henry, the king, when they 

lead you down from the throne. 
And that last minute, before the knife falls. 
That minute shall be mine. 

You, Gallo, the knifer — 

Drunken o' nights with that slit-eyed woman, 
Deeming me dead and handily shoved into hell. 
What, when the bed reels. 
And the walls labor and bring forth snakes — 
Incest of whiskey and gin — 
What will you know of me in hell, 
When you see my face at the window? 
Even when I turn away, there will be that knife-hole 
in my back, 

39 



Red as the tongues of snakes. 

Drink deep with your slit-eyed wench, 

Gallo, the knifer! 

Mary, my love — 

That one night, there in the orchard, was all, I 

know — 
Was all for us; but there will be om, we know. 
And I, through him, will look in your eyes again; 
And you, through him, will kiss me again to sleep — 
And soothe him with songs that only the orchard 

knows — 
And pillow his head as mine at your mother-breast, 
Mary, my love. 



40 



TO THE HELL-AND-HEAVEN BUILDERS 

HO! little souls, 
That have not pain enough, 
That have not room enough for pain. 
But you must dream you out another world, 
And fill it up with torments, as a box is filled with 

little bitter pills, 
And call it, Hell- 
God pity you! 
For you can never know 
The splendid rending anguish of the soul, 
That dares to say, "No more!"— 
God pity you! 
And let you have your little packet-hell. 

Ho! little souls, 
That have not joy enough, 
That have not room enough for joy. 
But you must dream you out another world, 
Packt full of pleasures, as a box is packt with sweets. 
And call it heaven — 
God pity you! 
For you can never feel 
The high triumphant glory of the soul- 
Daring the lonely hazard. 
When it meets 

41 



Its own strange mate upon its own dim star 

Betwixt Orion and the Pleiades — 

God pity you, 

And let you have your little candy-heaven! 



I 



GODLINESS 

KNOW a man who says 
That he gets godliness out of a book. 



He told me this as we sought arbutus 

On the April hills — 

Little color-poems of God 

Lilted to us from the ground, 

Lyric blues and whites and pinks. 

We climbed great rocks. 

Eternally chanting their grey elegies, 

And all about, the cadenced hills 

Were proud 

With the stately green epic of the Almighty. 

And then we walked home under the stars, 
While he kept telling me about his book, 
And the godliness in it. 

42 



SUNDAY MORNING 

I HAVE come out here into the woods, 
Because there are hob-nails in my shoes 
And because the people I saw in the town back 

there were so spick and span — 
Even the rosy little tot with his wide, white collar, 
And because there are so many churches in the town. 

I have come out here into the woods. 

The great oak is not spic and span, 
And the little oak does not wear a wide, white 
And the little oak does not wear a wide, white collar; 
And none of us. 

Not the stone, 

Nor the wood-mouse, 

Nor I, 
Wrangles over the meaning of printer's ink in heavy 

books. 



43 



> > 



WE'VE GONE AND DONE IT 

THE preacher prays, directing the Almighty 
To bless his congregation and certain others. 
And every little minister one hears 
Is very definite concerning God, 
With sound and sensible knowledge about what 
God likes, and dislikes laity to do. 

And all the little solemn kings and queens 

Take turns in finding chores for God to do; 

And every beggar begging by the road 

Has a, "God damn you!" or, "God bless you. sirl" 

According to the moment's mood. You know 

How every chiming poet sings of God, 

In every little rhyme he tries to write, 

And mixes God with cities and with maids. 

If God has given Himself a sense of humor, 

He will be very sorry when the earth 

Flies off on a tangent, and burns this funny race. 

And now we've gone and done it, too, poor fools! 



44 



ARGUMENT 

THIS all-encompassing, 
All-knowing God, 
Immanent, omnipotent — 
Who was in Christ! 
How can you Christians make Him out so small? 

He spoke to you through Christ, 
You say; 

He speaks to all through Christ, 
You say. 

Only through Jesus of Nazareth. 

And thus you compass the Almighty 
Within the flesh and bone 
Of one good man. 

You listen always, always 

To God, 

Preaching through the Nazarene. 

Do you think then the Almighty is a preacher? 

Listen ! 

What do you hear? 

God's mighty organ. 

The Niagara, 

Swelling with hymns to heaven. 

45 



Listen I 

Violet and goldenrod, 
Wild rose and thyme 
Singing, Singing, 
With the voice of God. 

Tanned young men go forth to war, 

Eager, laughing, eager, 

Offering the great offering. 

— Are you still looking for God in a book? 

Have you seen a young girl dancing — 
April, sing herself to May? 

— The Lord created, you say: 
Let us praise the Lord! 

Do you think the Lord created 

A wild rose by a stream, 

And then went back to heaven, and sat in a chair? 

Do you think the Lord created 
The girl with the dancing feet, 
And then withdrew into ether? 

Do you think God made. 

With a wave of His hand, 

The wonder-glories of May, 

And then returned to preaching — preaching? 

There is no beautiful thing 
But lives and is, 
Because of God within it. 

46 




WHEN THE NIGHT IS VERY LONG 

E still!" you say, "and let them have their lie, 
Their wonderful strange lie of some sweet life 
They will awake to when their victory 
Grows glorious over death. Be still!" you say. 
"See, those who hold this lie above all things 
Are but the old, the broken, near to death; 
And the despairing young, who have lost all 
That love could give them, for a little while." 

You say, "The old are harmless, let them dream! 
Their nerves are flaccid, and their eyes are dim; 
They have no present — only a past and hope, 
Only a little strength — ^just strength enough 
To quiet reason, and let a frail heart hope 
A beautiful lying hope." You say, "The young, 
The few despairing young who are dead at heart. 
The young wild mother who has lost a child, 
And the young husband who has lost a mate 
Must break and crumple, and presently go mad 
Without their hope, their beautiful lying hope. 

"Be still" you say, "and let them have their dream!" 
And I, who am young, I have no word to say. 
For even, when the night is very long. 
Or heaven itself is black, though the sun shines — 
For even I, who talked so bravely here, 
And seemed quite proud to go my way alone 
Into the grave that leads to nothingness, 
Would give my youth and all its splendid dreams 
To have myself that lying hope of theirs. 

47 



THE NEJV GOLGOTHA 

The good Lord Jesus, for all men, 

Hung long upon the tree; 

And nonu the great red tree is raised 

High for all men to see, 

And France, beloved France, is nailed 

For right and liberty. 

For love of men long years ago 

The Blessed Savior died; 

And noiv for right and liberty 

{Tivo godheads side by side) 

Our France, our oivn fair, human France, 

Is daily crucified. 

The Good Lord died for humankind. 

For beggars as for kings; 

And noiv all hail to France, all hail! 

In riven flesh she brings 

Her very self in sacrifice 

For two most godly things. 

For right, the very heart of God, 
For liberty, His son, 
Our France novu pays the heavy debt. 
Until God's ivill is done; 
Her sons, on grim Golgotha, fall 
Like blood-drops, one by one. 
January, 1918. 

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